


a chance encounter

by dearcaspian



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: At 11 pm, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, POV Second Person, Random & Short, Skyhold, from the reader's POV, not quite sure how to tag the rest of it, you are an elf and you're very confused by the universe and the inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25411543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcaspian/pseuds/dearcaspian
Summary: You have your opinions about the Inquisition's Herald, and they're about to be proven incorrect, to your delight.





	a chance encounter

**Author's Note:**

> A short oneshot featuring my Lavellan, Mahinnah, and LittleAprilFlowers' Lavellan, Arahiel, in our shared canon universe where one takes up the mantle of Herald, and one becomes the Inquisitor.

You have opinions about the Herald. Everyone else has, certainly, so you don't see why you should not be allowed to do the same. Often what you've heard from others, at least in the beginning, has been unkind: quietly whispered slurs and discouraging looks and pleas to a god you never quite understood the purpose of to come along and deliver a real hero in the place of this walking falsehood. Time and trust eventually turned these rumors into a strongly held belief, bordering on religious hysteria, that the Herald was going to save the world whether he was sent by the human's god or not. Dirty looks and hushed comments about the pointed nature of his ears were still noted, but grew less and less.  
  
Your opinions have never been so dismissive. As an elf, to see another of your kind in a position of power, beings of all ages and races following willingly in his footsteps, means something to you that you can't explain, but which causes your chest to ache deep within your ribs as you try to sleep at night. Still, on occasion, you wonder: what does he gain from serving under a human flag, if anything at all? You've never heard a word about the shemlen maker come directly from his mouth, only what politically charged, avoiding the issue statements those in the midst of his inner circle would make on his behalf when the press for a heaven sent truth would grow too great. Your thoughts aren't gentle, but neither are they fully supportive. You are subconsciously swayed by the chaotic events happening around you whether you like it or not, stuck in the metaphorical thunder of a dust storm kicked up by a herd of wild halla hooves.  
  
You aren't a chronicler, but sometimes you've fancied yourself a historian by hobby. There are countless pages and hand-bound tomes about the recent events shaping Thedas and your own commentary on them stuffed in the tiny trunk you managed to pilfer from an abandoned room when you came to Skyhold. No one will likely ever read them. Mostly you do this to make sense of the world, and to have something to look back on when you start to doubt the reality of your situation.  
  
Reality is a funny thing nowadays, which is why you joined the Inquisition in the first place.  
  
On occasion, you've tried to work up the courage to talk to him. Private thoughts regardless, you are not one who can simply walk up and start a conversation, and although he appears approachable, he intimidates you. This, too, you cannot explain. If he were ever by himself, this task you set yourself might be a little easier. The Herald rarely walks alone, except for a habitual evening stroll atop the ramparts, and you know better to disturb this.   
  
If not with a soldier, he strolled the grounds with a tutor, a mage, the Antivan ambassador, a wide eyed child of a refugee hanging off his arm, the unsmiling Seeker, the jovial dwarf. Most often he was with the Inquisitor. The two were usually found bent close over dinner in the hall, or sparring inside a ring of gathered and grinning people while you stood on your tiptoes near the edge to see their blades whirl past. He intimidated you more than the Herald, but in this you did understand why.   
  
Despite your feigned confidence, you knew you'd likely never make the attempt. What could you bring to that table, the skills of your father's ancient ironbark bow, your pledge to help a cause you didn't really know the nuances of, your misguided mistrust and unconscious adoration?  
  
In the evenings you sit with the other soldiers, those who were there since the beginning and those who had joined along the way, like you. You listen to the stories and do not share your own, for the few scrapes you had smuggled out of seemed nothing compared to what was going on in the Emerald Graves at the impatient behest of the Herald and the Inquisitor.   
  
And, like everyone else, your thoughts eventually turned to his hand, and the mark, and the gloves he had taken to wearing when out in the public eye.  
  
You get your first chance to see it up close, although this is not due to how much you distantly wished for the opportunity. It is a cold morning, and you've wrapped yourself in cloaks in the barracks, furiously scribbling down a tale the bard had been singing in the tavern last night, when another elf comes rushing into the room.  
  
 _You're needed,_ is all he says, and your eyes grow wide as he rushes back out. In an instant you've donned your gear and grabbed your father's bow from the foot of your makeshift bed.  
  
When the Inquisitor called, there was no refusal.  
  
You make your way outside. The change from relative warmth and dim light to the sounds of shouts and screams amidst the blare of the winter sun comes like a kick to the chest. All around you refugees scramble, gathering their families and belongings as they rush to the safety of Skyhold's main entrance. The fortress leers above you, unyielding, and you turn from it towards the mountain bridge. Templars and mages are sprinting through the gate. It is not apparent why, until you squint up.  
  
A rift hovers in the sky. It is a mere mockery of a tear in the fade when compared to the great gash that floats constantly high in the heavens above your head. On its own, it looks formidable. You have never seen one up close and your feet freeze to the earth, until someone brushing past jostles you back to awareness. Its green light pulses sickly, static charges of electricity shooting out at random intervals into the air.  
  
The hole in its center is dark. You think, for a moment, you see red eyes glaring through, the head of a mass lined with teeth and bloody claws.  
  
You run towards the rift like the rest. The noise of it grows louder as you approach, a sickly hum in the back of your head, making it hard to think. Instinct grounds you, allows you to draw your bow once positioned atop the crumbling stone barrier lining the left side of the bridge. From here, you feel like you can see half of the frostbacks.   
  
They pour out of the hole in time and space much how water roars off the edge of a jagged cliff side to the rocks below. You've seen demons before, but still you shiver at their size, the way their misshapen bodies look more and more unnatural the longer you watch them. You have difficulty focusing on the mass of darkness until it splits, shattering outwards into thirty distinct crawling, writhing forms, each trailing wisps of that glowing green light.   
  
Other archers join you. A volley of arrows rains down and you hear the gratifying screech of pierced flesh. The swarm of templars and mages crash into the hoard with bolts of magic and the swish of swords pulled from their sheaths.   
  
In sheer numbers, it is an unmatched fight in the Inquisition's favor. You see it clear as the blinding sun, thinking this must be the cause of an unpredictable break in the Fade, not a planned attack. Hubris is not a skill you've ever mastered, however, so you worry instead about how powerful a Fade demon must really be to require so many soldiers.  
  
You stand tall, steady, convinced you're making a difference, until a wraith puts their cold mouth to the back of your neck and screams.  
  
The bridge scrapes your knees half as much as the fall bruises your dignity. You push yourself up but someone blocks your view and nearly knocks you back again. The wraith floats down from its perch, translucent mouth open in a soundless cry, and you realize who it is that stands in front of you.  
  
 _Duck_ , says the Herald, and you do.  
  
For a split second, you are back to back. He radiates heat like a fire, and as his leather armor scrapes against yours, you think this must be what it is like to live in a clan with other elves; and that in this moment he was almost as beautiful as he was terrifying to behold.   
  
He moves to the left. You roll under him, a dance neither of you know the steps to, guided by adrenaline and intuition. His hair whips around his shoulders, a red-gold swirl, followed by a flash of silver as he arcs a dagger just above your head into the throat of the beast.   
  
You twist and dance, brushing against him again, and it is then that you see the shadow of a terror ambling towards him just out of his line of sight.   
  
_Herald!_ you shout, your voice cracking. _Look out!_  
  
He looks to you, wide-eyed, and then spins to where you point just in time to drive a dagger into the terror's bony chest. It crumples with a scream you feel in the bottoms of your feet.  
  
You part from him before either can speak, him into the center of the battle, you back atop your post. Arrows fly swiftly from your string, never missing a mark. Concentration draws beads of sweat across your forehead, dissipating into your eyebrows and lashes, but you do not blink. The demons begin to falter under the onslaught, vanishing or retreating back into the Fade, a testament to your pledge's combined fury.  
  
You see it then, glowing fiercely, crackling with the same energy present in the rift. There is nothing grandiose about his gesture as he raises his palm to the sky, fingers spread, teeth gritted. He winces, and you feel something in the air _pull_. Oxygen races out of your lungs as a roar echoes across the mountains, part demonic scream, part slivers of the sky realigning themselves back into shape.  
  
Just like that, the rift is gone.   
  
There is cheering around you that you don't pay much attention to. Those who have seen this feat before turn their backs after deciding the area secure, headed back to their respective spaces as though nothing had happened. A healer calls out and ends up turning away too, once realizing there are no injuries great enough to require magic. Talking and more shouting rattle around you until the other soldiers too begin to drift away. The tevinter mage departs, the madly grinning elf woman skips away. Eventually only a few remain, including you.  
  
You watch the Herald stumble for a moment, catching himself before he hits the ground. From this distance lesser eyes would not be able to perceive how he bows his head, clenches his fist, mouth moving wordlessly. The Inquisitor gives him a second to breathe and then slings an arm over his shoulder to help him up, his worry obvious.  
  
But the Herald stands too soon for you to make sense of what you read on his lips, and he kisses the Inquisitor's cheek, a familiar, thankful gesture while he pulls his gloves back on.  
  
The Inquisitor grins, leans to whisper something in the Herald's ear. They share a laugh, musical and relieved. The Inquisitor stands straight and bows, gesturing for the Herald to proceed ahead of him, only for the Herald to roll his eyes and shove jokingly at the Inquisitor's arm as he passed.  
  
You hop lightly off your post, anticipation and nerves buzzing under your skin, fingertips raw from your bowstring, too afraid to move. They pass you, and for a fleeting second you think they will not look over to meet your eyes, until the Herald says something to his companion and halts right beside you.  
  
Up close, his gaze is kind, older than the rest of his young face. You question for the first time how anyone could condemn the passion and honesty behind it.  
  
 _Thank you_ , he tells you, nodding. _You saved me back there. What's your name?_  
  
You mumble off something vaguely coherent. The Herald smiles. He seems just as unused to a conversation with a relative stranger as you are.  
  
 _I owe you one, lethallin_ , he says. And the Inquisitor winks, and then they are gone, a slow moving pair down the bridge. You realize only later he spoke to you in elvhen, not the common tongue that never feels quite right on your lips.  
  
That night, you find a place next to him in the tavern, by luck or will. He smiles, offers you a drink, asks you where you've come from and about home. You think that later, when you write down the day's events, you'll start first with how Mahinnah was the first one to pronounce your name right.


End file.
